


To Make Much of Time

by Callie, cerie



Series: L'essentiel est invisible pour les yeux [1]
Category: The Newsroom (US TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-01
Updated: 2012-09-01
Packaged: 2017-11-13 07:08:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/500829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Callie/pseuds/Callie, https://archiveofourown.org/users/cerie/pseuds/cerie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It's not about whether you can manage, it's about whether I can. And I don't think I can manage to leave you alone right now."</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Make Much of Time

**Author's Note:**

> spoilers for the entire series up to the S1 finale.

Will's not sure why he was thinking he wasn't coming back to the show. The Dorothy Cooper story already has him revved and he wants to get it on the air as soon as possible and he can't imagine doing anything else. He needs a cigarette and a shower and clothes that are not pajamas or a fucking hospital gown and food that is did not come off a fucking hospital tray and he really, REALLY needs Mac to stop fucking hovering. Lonny drove him back to his apartment and Mac just came along without asking, and while her fidgeting like a nervous little bird for the whole drive almost drove him nuts, he didn't really have the heart to tell her to go back to work or go home and in fact he doesn't really want her to go. So instead of yelling at her (because if he does, one of two things will happen--she will yell back or her face will crumple and he's not in the mood for either of those at the moment, especially the last one) he barks at Lonny that he doesn't need to be escorted all the way up to his apartment and he doesn't need Lonny to carry his bag or the paper sack full of pills the hospital sent him home with like he's a goddamn senior citizen and he really doesn't need his apartment checked over for this phantom horde that's trying to kill him, but Lonny just replies that's why he's getting $1700 a week plus health and dental in that voice that really means _don't fuck with me, McAvoy_ and Will just waves him off.

There are apparently no death threats lurking in his coat closet because Lonny doesn't stick around, he just says "call me if you're leaving the house before work tomorrow" and Will disappears to his suite for a shower and clothes that aren't meant for sleeping in, and when he comes out Mac is still there, doing something in his kitchen and he's not really sure _what_ because he doesn't remember her being Martha Stewart when they were together. He hangs in the door a minute, watching her, and thinks Lonny should have evaluated _her_ as a potential threat instead of every other shadow. "What are you doing?" he says, finally.

He must have startled her because she jumps, brushes her hand against the stove and it's hot enough to burn because she sticks her injured finger in her mouth.

"Damn, you frightened me. Anyway, I thought you might like a proper dinner so I was attempting to make that happen. Are you aware that you've got very little aside from eggs and bacon? You can't just live on that, you know."

"I've managed to live off of it so far," he says, eyeing the stove warily. Sometimes, he's not entirely sure what to think about Mac. It's like he doesn't know her like he used to, and while there are some things he _knows_ will set her off or make her laugh, there are times he looks at her and thinks _who the fuck are you_? And there are times when she looks like she looks right now, sucking on her injured finger and looking at him with those big doe eyes and... he sighs and skirts the kitchen to the refrigerator instead of thinking about her eyes.

She's right about there not being much in his kitchen, but he's not going to give her the satisfaction of admitting it. He closes the fridge. "I ate at the hospital."

"That's about as far from proper food as saying the crisis in Syria is just a bit of a squabble between friends," Mac says, dismissing that and brushing past him to get into the refrigerator.

"You really ought to have something good," she says, while she's rummaging through his cabinets and drawers and knocking things around and in the process of all this rummaging she knocks a dish towel onto the stove and it catches on fire. "Bloody hell! I didn't...Will!"

Somehow, somewhere, some deity is smiling on him because Will manages not to laugh even though he really, really wants to and he knows, deep down, that no matter how adorable he finds it when she panics--sometimes she has these complete meltdowns under pressure but when it really counts, she's brilliant--she will murder him if he laughs at her. He whips the towel to the floor and smothers it with a pan (he's not sure that pan has ever been used, oh well).

"This is your idea of something good?" he says, completely deadpan. He doesn't know why he says stuff like this, because she really is trying and any other guy who is not an asshole would demonstrate some kind of appreciation but this is the kind of stuff that comes out of his mouth.

"Normally I try to refrain from arson unless I have strong political reasons," Mac says coolly. "I guess I shouldn't attempt cooking. I could ring someone to bring us something up, I suppose. I don't really want to leave you alone right now."

He wants to ask her why she assumes that he'd be here alone, but since she's actually right about that he doesn't go there. "I can manage," he says, before he realizes he's left her an opening to say something like _WELL YOU DIDN'T SEEM TO BE MANAGING SO GREAT WHEN WE FOUND YOU!_ (With Mac, everything is in ALL CAPITAL LETTERS, ALL THE TIME, even if he's just thinking about her). Shit. He keeps leaving her too many fucking openings and that's not okay.

"It's not about whether you can manage, it's about whether I can. And I don't think I can manage to leave you alone right now."

*****

It's a heavy admission and Mac feels her shoulders slump a bit as if a weight's been lifted; sometimes, talking to Will McAvoy feels like being thrown in the ring for ten rounds with a heavyweight and all you've got are shoddy gloves and no helmet to carry you through.

"So you're simply going to have to endure me for the moment."

Will is quiet for a moment. Mac has always thought it ironic that for a man so famous for his _words_ that Will is much more frightening when he’s quiet. It feels like the calm before a very bad storm and she braces herself for something sharp and is shocked when she gets something soft instead."It's not enduring," he says, and she’s confused about her place in the world all over again. It’s easier to function when he’s punishing her and this isn’t punishment so it doesn’t fit into the neat little box she’s drawn around their relationship or the lack thereof.

"It feels that way sometimes," Mac says softly. There's no accusation in her tone, only defeat, and once the moment passes, she's got a smile plastered on her face and her emotions mostly in check.

"I should call Jim so he can be on standby to carry Jane through tonight. I'll be useless if I try to produce anything and they'll send me straight down to start turning out fluff for Access Hollywood if I'm not careful."

Likely not. Likely, she'd be back on war correspondence but Mac has no desire to be embedded again. The last tour was harrowing even if she was doing good things and producing news that mattered. All Mac wants is to do the things that matter, the things that are good, and running News Night the way she has for the past fifteen months has been a godsend and exactly the sort of thing she’d dreamed of doing when she was a girl. She bites her lip slightly and waits, yet again, for the blow. This is the time when Will can kick her out and she really, really doesn’t want that to happen. Not yet.

"It won't take but a moment, I promise. And then I will be entirely yours to endure for the rest of the night."

"Go ahead," Will says, a little less gruffly than usual. She’ll consider that a success, at least. "I'll just--" He makes a vague motion toward the living room and then leaves and even though she’s not in the same room, she can hear the flick of his lighter and his soft exhale. She wishes he’d stop smoking, certainly, but if wishes were horses, she’d be a bloody damn dressage champion at the moment. Instead, Mac glares at the cigarette and says nothing, opting to ensure the show is in capable hands. The conversation is terse but she and Jim know one another well enough to fill in the blanks without words. There’s nothing she’s ever valued more in a producer than that and Jim, someday, is going to be fantastic at her job. It makes her proud more than nervous and that, too, is a good sign.

"That doesn't interact with anything, does it? Your antidepressants?"

Mac's not a doctor but, really, it simply can't help the health situation he's already in and might exacerbate it further. She simply has to say something and can't let it lie. Losing Will is something she’s already done in one way and she really doesn’t relish the idea of losing him entirely. She cares about him entirely too much to imagine being without him and, perhaps more importantly, this show they’re doing is important to more than just Mackenzie McHale and Will McAvoy. It’s something bigger than the both of them and it won’t last if Will’s not there to help her bring it to life.

He takes a long drag from the cigarette and Mac’s half-certain he’s done it simply to rile her. She refuses to play into that this evening, though, and stands her ground with a stony glare. "No," he says. "It might not be helping the ulcer, but I'm giving up the naproxen and I'm not reading that fucking article again, so one thing at a time, okay?"

"I hardly care about the ulcer if you go and give yourself lung cancer!"

It's a bit hysterical and she ought to be embarrassed but Mac finds that she's been so worked up over him being sick that it's got to escape somehow and this is as good a time as any. They're alone and there's no chance that TMI or their staff will see them acting in a Completely Unprofessional Manner and there's no reason it has to go outside this room. Besides, Mac's made a fool of herself on Will's account on more than one occasion. She at least has reasonable cause this time.

"I lo...I care about you, you imbecile."

****

The thing is, it's been easier for Will to keep his shit together where Mac's concerned when he thought she heard the message and just chose not to respond to it. Case closed, lock it up, throw away the key. But now that he knows she didn't respond because she never fucking heard it, well. That makes everything abundantly LESS clear.

He takes another drag from the cigarette and then snuffs it out, only half-finished. It's not like he's quitting or anything but if she's going to get all hysterical about it he just won't do it around her. Which doesn't leave a lot of places to do it, but Will can be crafty. He'll make opportunities.

Will makes a big show of snuffing out the cigarette, not because he's trying to say LOOK, OKAY, I STOPPED, but because she's treading dangerously close to ground he's not sure he wants to cover and he's not sure what to do about it. Even though she ripped his heart out and fucking stomped it, he never stopped loving her, and the thing about Mac is she's not the kind of woman you just _kind of_ love. You either love her with everything in you or you don't love her at all. That's it. There's no halfway with her. Or at least for Will, anyway.

He searches for something to say but thank all the fucking angels in heaven, it's the doorbell. "Food," he says, unnecessarily, and goes to answer the door and pay the delivery guy. He's so grateful to be saved by the bell (har, har) that the kid ends up with a 70% tip and doesn't know why.

"Are we going to lead with the voter ID law story, then?" Mac asks when he returns. "No more ratings fodder to shore up the viewers and keep them placidly staring at the screen?"

"Fuck the ratings," Will says amiably, cheered considerably both by talk of the story that got his ass out of bed in the first place (steering talk away from anything personal) as well as the smell of what promises to be a delicious dinner after days of shitty hospital food or lack thereof. Mac's gotten out plates, which is great because he fucking hates eating out of takeout containers, and he unpacks the food and pours them drinks. "We open up with Dorothy Cooper to make it personal and then open it up to voter ID laws generally. How many Tea Party governors are behind them--we need statistics on how many people could be potentially disenfranchised compared to the number of actual cases of voter fraud. The difficulties people encounter when they need ID to get their birth certificate but need their birth certificate to get ID, how much it costs, and in what areas the passage of ID requirements coincides with reduced hours and closures at the DMV."

"It's a good segue into a cross-party issue," Mac agrees. "I think it's important to highlight that this isn't something that's strictly Democrat or Republican and that it affects everyone. No bias. Everyone needs to be incredibly concerned about the fact that their very voice might be lost in the midst of bureaucratic bullshit. The Tea Party continues to be viable, though," she adds. "Because they're everyone's enemy as far as I'm concerned."

They go on like this for a while and Will realizes it's kind of nice, sitting down to dinner with Mac and talking about the things that really matter. It gets a little heated but it's not the same as arguing--they're on the same side with this, even if they look at it from different angles, and the heat isn't from antagonizing each other, it's from really giving a shit about something. Will misses giving a shit about something and having someone to give a shit about it with. Specifically, he misses giving a shit about things with _her_ , and giving a shit _about_ her. Not that he's ready to admit it.

He doesn't really run out of steam until they run out of food and even then it's not so much running out of steam (because get him on a good political rant and he can just keep going for hours) as running out of the energy to be awake. Which is pretty much the same thing, Will supposes. But he doesn't put his fork down or get up to deal with the plates, because when he does there will be this awkward moment where Mac will say she ought to go home and it will be clear she doesn't want to and Will doesn't really want to let her go home anyway and he doesn't know what to do about that. These last few days in the hospital, he's gotten used to her being around again, but he's still can't fucking bring himself to forgive her (he holds a grudge like a goddamn five year old), at least not enough to the point where he feels like he has any right to ask anything from her, least of all asking her to keep his sorry ass company.

*****

There's a little moment, just half a beat, where Mac wonders if she should just gather the plates and wash up before letting herself out but she stops. If the plates are still dirty, she can always use them as an excuse to stay and while it's juvenile, she wants the trump card. She eyes Will, equal parts mother hen and dear friend.

"You must be exhausted, Will. There's no need to keep yourself up for my sake, I promise. You should go on to bed. I insist."

Will taps the tip of his fork against the edge of his plate, a little tic that Mac notices even though she’s sure she shouldn’t have. Sometimes there is such a thing as knowing someone too well, even if she occasionally accuses Will of being someone she doesn’t know and that she doesn’t know where his head is at any given moment. He’s been a bit...random, of late, but she does still know him. This is just more evidence to add to that pile.

"When's the last time you slept, Mackenzie?" he asks, and it startles her and puts things back in her court. He’s deflecting, she thinks, because she’s not the one who just had a bleeding ulcer and was hospitalized and really, she’s just _fine_. She feels a bit tired and frazzled, certainly, but she spent the better part of three years having bombs lobbed at her head and living in fear of her life and the life of her staff. She can handle a few evenings of less-than-comfortable sleep snatched in a chair next to the hospital bed of a man she loves very much. It’s no hardship. She’s done harder things for the benefit of Will McAvoy. She does harder things every day.

"I've scraped a few hours here and there," Mac says, dodging the question with some modicum of grace. Sometimes, when Will's being particularly keen about something, Mac feels like a bug under glass and she hates feeling that way. She hates it because she knows that Will McAvoy can dissect her with all the precision and detachment of a surgeon and, even more, she hates that she'll take that over seeing him wounded over and over again.

"I have plenty of fight left in me, don't worry. I've operated on less sleep than this for a lot longer."

"And then tomorrow, when we get on with the voter ID story you're going to be dead on your feet," he grumbles. Mac wants to protest it but Will’s face has gone completely stone and she knows that he’ll brook no arguments at this moment. It’s best to just let him go on with this line because at least if he’s stuck on her, he won’t be thinking about doing something stupid to himself again and that’s all she can ask for. "Just go sit down or something, will you?" he adds, nodding to the living room. "I'll deal with this. And don't even try to argue, I've been stuck in a fucking bed for days, I can handle putting some plates in the dishwasher."

Mac opens her mouth, yet again, to protest and then shuts it and it's just the sort of dramatic display she'd been looking to avoid. Really, it’s a lot easier to look like a rational adult if one isn’t flopping around like a landed fish and she’s grateful this has happened in Will’s apartment instead of somewhere out in public where everyone can see just how big a fool he makes her. And he does make her into a fool because Mac’s always been a bit starry-eyed around him and it’s possibly even worse now than before because Will’s actually living up to all the potential she knows he’s capable of instead of sugar-coating things and being afraid to offend anyone. 

Will always makes her feel big things, things that are too complex to be kept neatly under wraps and discussed politely the way any good English (well, techically British-American but who’s being technical at the moment?) girl ought to. He makes her impossibly angry, terribly sad, makes her soar up and down in ways that no man has ever done before. 

It pains her to know that she only realized that after she'd fucked around with Brian for four months and, in the interest of coming into her first real relationship with honesty and new-found love, hurt the one man she could never imagine hurting in a million years. Every day, she sees Will in front of her and thinks how different things might have been if she hadn't been stupid and cheated. Or, perhaps less nobly, if she'd never told him she had and continued on without him being any the wiser. It seems dishonest, though, and both Mac and Will abhor dishonesty both in their political candidates and personal dealings.

She merely nods and goes to settle on the couch and when she leans her head back and shuts her eyes, it's mostly in the interest of not crying and she doesn't intend to fall asleep. Will’s still puttering about in the kitchen and the noise is soothing, domestic, and it reminds her of how they used to be long ago. She’d gotten comfortable with Will toward the end of things and had really seen that it was going to work. She and Will would last, get married, perhaps have children if either of them could slow down long enough to make that feasible.

But it frightened her. It frightened her to be comfortable with a man when she’s never really been comfortable with anyone other than herself and Mac knows that half the reason she cheated on him with Brian was that Brian could tear her down in a way that Will, before, never could. Will had been nothing but exceedingly kind to her during the course of their relationship and it was so strikingly different from anything else she’d ever had before. Will opens doors, sends flowers, wines and dines in a way that feels utterly sincere beneath the extravagance. They’d spent long mornings in bed together arguing politics and religion and anything under the sun and as infuriating as he could be, he was also fascinating and brilliant and it’s something that Mac knows she’ll never get back. There’s no man under the sun that’s quite like Will McAvoy and she’s fairly certain that she wants him or nothing at all. It’s a daunting task, that, and the sheer weight of considering it exhausts her more than her own physical exhaustion.

Mac is vaguely aware of Will sitting beside her and, a few minutes later, when he covers her with a throw. She's exhausted, though, and she doesn't move except to sneak the tiniest bit closer to him on the couch, just enough that she can lay her head against his shoulder and feel his hip touching hers. There's so much space between them now, a chasm of her own making that's only been eroded deeper by his stubbornness, but for a moment, it feels like things might be all right. It feels like things could heal and while perhaps not be the way they were before, be an acceptable new thing for the both of them.

Mac knows not to grasp too tightly at this fragile peace between them. She knows that will only make Will draw away and close off tighter and she, in turn, will be stubborn and stop reaching out for a while. They'll squabble about everything and not in a professional banter way and more using their words to strike at the heart and wound. She knows things will get worse if she acknowledges this little bridge and so, instead, she settles for laying her head against his shoulder and pretending, for a moment, that she's asleep and not doing it on purpose.

It's a hollow victory.

*****

Will suspects, from the slight change in her breathing and the way she inches over bit by bit (not that he was sitting very far away from her) that she's not really asleep anymore, but he's okay with that. If she pretends to be asleep and he pretends like he doesn't know she isn't, then she's not nagging him and he's not baiting her and it's nice. It feels good. Okay, if he's honest, having a screaming match with her feels good too, especially when she's giving as good as she gets, but that's a different kind of good. This is... this is the kind of thing they used to have, before (no, not thinking about that and fucking this up) and he misses it. He misses her stealing the crossword out of his New York Times and stealing the covers and using up the hot water and at least he has her during the day at work but it's really not the same.

So he lets her rest her head against his shoulder and lets her go on pretending she's asleep and doesn't call her out on it. He likes it.

After a bit, she shifts a little closer, curling her fingers into his shirt, and _fuck_ he misses that too.

"I thought I'd lost you, Will," she murmurs, sleepy but not sleeping. "You can't ever scare me like this again. I can't take it. I'll completely lose my mind."

If this had happened fifteen months ago, hell even six months ago, Will would probably say something really shitty and this would all go down in flames. And even now he almost does. It's like an instinct: Mac says something remotely meaningful and he goes into defense mode, because there's a part of him that really wants to forgive her and try to get back what they had, and there's a part of him that can't because if she stomps on his heart again that's it, that's just fucking it and he's not ready to risk it. Yet.

He doesn't say any of the first things that come immediately to mind. They are numerous and rather colorful but he keeps them to himself in favor of brushing his thumb against her knuckles. "I think this is the part where I'm supposed to promise I'm not going to do that again," he says, eventually. "But while I can tell you that I probably won't do that particular thing again, in the interest of full disclosure, there's a pretty good chance I'll do something just as stupid in the future because I didn't do it on purpose." And Will's self-aware enough to know that he can be pretty fucking stupid sometimes. Often. Whatever.

"I never stopped worrying about you," Mac admits softly. "It wasn't a matter of not loving you. Before, I mean. It was because I loved you and I was frightened of it."

"I don't want to talk about that." It's an immediate, reflex response, like slamming on brakes when some asshole cuts too close in front of you on the freeway, coming out just as fast and with the same rush of adrenaline, and it's a lot more terse than he wants it to be. Once he realizes it, he takes a breath and adds, somewhat less tersely, "About what happened. I can't."

If he talks about it, or even thinks about it for more than a few seconds, he just can't deal with it--why the fuck did she have to go and bring it up? Why did she have to stop pretending to be asleep? If she had just kept faking it things would be fine. Just like she had to go and tell him she cheated on him. If she had never said anything they would have both been better off.

Mac stiffens slightly, her fingers loosening their hold on his shirt. "I won't mention it again. I misjudged things and I thought...we were ready to talk about it. We're not?"

It's so fucking hard not to get angry about this, but Will makes a conscious effort to keep his shit together. "I'm trying," he says. It sounds lame, and he loses a little hold on his anger because he's pissed that he can't sound like a goddamn grownup. "You could have kept pretending to be asleep," he grumbles. He wants that back, because at least when she was pretending to be asleep and he was pretending he didn't realize it they could just be here and enjoy each other's company (or, at least, he was enjoying _hers_ ) and now that's gone.

"I could pretend to sleep in a bed. Do you have one of those?" The way she says it is like she means it to be flip but it comes out sounding more tired than anything. It softens him a little, lets him inch down his guard just enough not to snap at her. Maybe a little more than that.

"A few, actually," he says. His own, obviously, and two guest rooms that never get used except for that one time his youngest sister came for a visit. "Take your pick."

So he doesn't want her to leave. And he doesn't want to talk about the thing. And if she was any other woman at his house this time of night, he knows exactly where they would end up and what they would be doing there and really he wouldn't think twice about it. But this is Mac, and everything has to be so goddamn complicated.

Somehow, Will's not surprised that she chooses his bedroom and his bed, and there's a part of him that's glad she did because he misses having her in it, just like he misses pretty much every damn thing about her. Maybe this makes things more complicated, maybe less (he doubts that, when does anything with Mac get less complicated these days?) but he feels like she's making an effort that doesn't include talking about it and he can go with that.

Mac slips off her shoes and accomplishes some feat of feminine gymnastics to slip her bra from underneath her blouse before sliding into his bed mostly still dressed. He waits until she's settled and then he joins her in his bed that's big enough that there's at least another person's worth of space between them so it's not as awkward as it could be--and what awkward there is, Will's not going to think about, because he's so damn tired he can't think straight.

"I'm glad you stayed," he says after a bit. It's quiet enough that if she's asleep it won't wake her and if she's just faking she doesn't have to acknowledge it.

She doesn't.

He hopes it's because she's asleep.


End file.
